Raffy the Sparrowhawk
The ridiculously tall youth with the stubbly face and the neck tattoo has been an alright companion. Not much of a talker in general, he has managed to keep evenings entertaining with songs, dances and various tumbling feats. For most of the day he's just been slumped in his seat looking bored and surly. His hat
is even tilted down over his face as if he's sleeping.
When the rope comes up and the creatures show themselves, he wastes no time. Without changing his posture, he pulls his blunderbuss with his right hand. Resting the gun across his lap he points its muzzle vaguely toward the closest Gor (the oner to the north) and pulls the trigger. The resulting explosion echoes from distant hills and reverberates through the smokey air. If the target isn't dead, it's likely deaf. But then, so is the Sparrowhawk.
No sooner is the trigger pulled than the young man disappears from his seat. In the cloud of smoke, it's possible that no one saw him vault up and over the walls of the wagon.